Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(11)

I feel bits of myself melting away – the self that I’ve created. I am afraid of that other self, the other person I used to be. Him showing up here has brought her back. Even though the reports of my demise, as they say, were premature, I have in fact died and been reborn as Nicole. But now, sitting here, drinking my cognac in the dark, I know that no matter what name I’ve chosen for myself, no matter what existence I’ve managed to carve out, I am still that other person when it comes to him. I am twenty-five again, despite my aging eyes, the lines in my face, the gray hairs.

I try to distract myself, going into the kitchen and washing out my glass. I don’t need another drink. I put the glass in the dish drainer to dry, wiping my hands on a towel. I look around my kitchen and it feels strange to me, as if I’ve never been here before. Where did that crack in the wall come from? Has it always been there? The light is too dim; maybe I should use regular light bulbs again.

I am standing there, studying the coils on the electric stove, when the knock makes me jump.

Eyes peer through the back door window at me. He backs away slightly, and I can see him clearly now in the light I’ve left on outside. I undo the lock and let him in.

‘I’ve been worried about you.’ Steve is wearing sweatpants and a fleece pullover. ‘I wanted to make sure you were OK.’

‘Come on in. Want a drink?’

Steve follows me into the house. ‘How about some of that brandy you’ve always got here?’

I take another glass out of the cupboard and the one I’ve just washed out of the drainer. I pour us each a glass, and we take them into the living room. I turn on one of the table lamps, just enough light emanating to make it cozy. We settle in, me on the couch and Steve in the rocker across from me.

‘I thought he’d find you,’ he says.

‘Me, too,’ I admit. ‘He has been very persistent. But so far, no sign of him.’

‘I stopped back at Club Soda and peeked in. He’s not there. Do you know where he’s staying?’

I shrug. ‘No idea. He didn’t say when I saw him at the gallery.’ The light does not allow me to see outside, only the reflections in the window, our silhouettes. We look relaxed, drinks in our hands, as if we are having a regular evening together and not waiting for the boogeyman to show. ‘You know,’ I say, ‘I can take care of myself.’ But even as I say it, I know I’m wrong.

Steve suspects, too, and he says nothing. Just drinks his cognac and smiles sadly at me.

Finally I stand up. ‘He’s not going to show up here,’ I say. It has been twenty minutes. ‘I think you can go home. I’ll just lock the doors, OK?’ I am feeling claustrophobic suddenly; I need to be alone. I am afraid that if he stays, I’ll tell him everything. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I cannot risk it.

We go into the kitchen, and I take Steve’s glass. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek, his beard scratching my face, but not in a bad way. I hold onto his shoulder for a moment, letting his concern wash over me, knowing he is just being a friend. I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, Steve pulls away.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he says gruffly. ‘Lock up.’ And then he is gone, out the back door, letting in the crisp night breeze. It sweeps through the mudroom and clasps my legs, wrapping itself around me, spinning upward until I feel it on the back of my neck. I shiver. I close the door and lock it, turning out the light when I see Steve’s Explorer heading down the driveway.

The morning is bright, the sun peeking through my curtains. I roll over, not sure just when I went to sleep, but I feel refreshed. I don’t allow myself to wonder why he didn’t come. It’s no longer my problem, I think, tying my bathrobe around me, shuffling out toward the kitchen in my socks.

I stop in the doorway. On the table is a box. A cardboard box that I know was not there last night. It is about the size of a shirt box, but deeper. Its seams are covered in duct tape, which makes its way in a circle around the top and the bottom. There is writing on the top. I slowly make my way over to the table, put a finger on the corner of the box and turn it slightly.

‘Open me,’ it invites.

I pull my finger away as if I’ve gotten a shock. I don’t want to open it. I listen carefully but hear nothing inside. Of course, bombs inside packages might only tick in movies, not in real life.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, in the same spot, my heart pounding, but the phone’s ring crashes into my head and bounces off the wall, making me jump. I rush across the room and grab the handset, as if the sound of it will set off whatever’s in the mysterious box.

‘Open the f*cking box,’ I hear, and then a click. He’s hung up.

I forget about the box as I realize he’s watching me. I shrink back against the kitchen counter, wishing I could disappear inside it, change colors like a chameleon. For the first time I wish I did not have as many windows, because I cannot figure out which one he might be on the other side of.

Just as suddenly as the fear shot through me, however, I am no longer afraid. It is as if a switch has been flipped, and the anger sweeps through me. I take a step toward the box, and with only a second of hesitation I pick it up. It is fairly light, but something jostles inside it. Instead of ripping the tape off, I take it to the mudroom and open the back door, heaving the box out. It rolls across the grass before I slam the door shut again.